“Well.... a few, anyway. If the weather’s good.”
“Susi?”
“We’ve been so busy on the boat, I’ve hardly noticed.”
“What about the rat-faced little fellow?” Duffy suggested suddenly. “Nastylooking
piece of work. He’s always hanging around. Wears a crappy-looking brown
suit. Drives an old white van, looks like he painted it himself. What’s his name?”
“Wilf Ferris,” Charlie Hood chuckled. “Looking for a twenty-foot runabout.
I’ve shown him round a couple but he’s a hard man to please. Or else he doesn’t have
the cash.”
“We’re not really into boat sales,” Duffy explained. “Ties up too much capital.
Occasionally we act as brokers. Not often. This Ferris must know that, but he’s a persistent
little bastard.”
“Is he from around here?” Devoran asked.
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 84
“He told me he could be reached at the Globe….” Duffy suddenly exclaimed,
“Wait a minute! Back to that guy in the bomber jacket. I knew I’d seen him before.
He had a flaming row with Li Slade one day. I thought he was going to hit Li.”
“What was it about?” Devoran asked.
“Dunno. I just saw it going on from up here. I asked Li about it after, but he
seemed kind of sheepish. Know anything about it, Susi?”
“I must have been out shopping.”
Devoran watched Dobbin note this down, wondering what he could ask next.
He’d run out of ideas. He had two leads, anyway; Ferris and the supposed Czech in
the bomber jacket. Probably both innocent as newborn babes. But worth following
up. In fact, the only leads he could follow up.
Maybe it was time for lunch.
MONDAY LUNCH TIME: IN THE GLOBE
Devoran sat with Susi and Dobbin at a corner table. “What am I going to do now?”
Susi asked.
They’d ordered food. Devoran was working on a pint of locally-brewed
Hermann’s Bavarian while the two women drank cider. He’d once been told that bartenders
respected drinkers of Hermann’s and regarded them as connoisseurs. Well, he
had to gather respect where he could. There was precious little of it coming his way
outside the doors of the Globe.
“Have you thought,” Dobbin asked him, ignoring Susi’s question, “that getting
hold of the box may have been the whole motive behind this? Miss Sutcliffe says there
were computer discs in it, for instance. Who knows what was on them? Digital photographs?
Was Slade a blackmailer? And there was the money; at least a thousand dollars,
according to Susi. And all kinds of papers. Maybe other negotiable stuff; dope,
diamonds, who knows?”
“I just know my money and passport was in there,” Susi said. “I don’t really
know what else apart from those dollars I caught a glimpse of. Lionel used to kind of
hunch over it when he had it open, like a miser. I couldn’t see round him. But he didn’t
strike me as a blackmailer.”
“You weren’t exactly well acquainted,” Dobbin said acidly.
“All right. So someone got onto the boat and took the box; we know that,”
Devoran said, “According to Susi it’s not the kind of thing you can carry far. And obviously
it must have been before the explosion.” An image of Bill’s clandestine frogman
crept into his mind again, but he dismissed it firmly. “So why turn the propane on afterward?”
“I can’t answer the propane question,” Dobbin said, “but the box could have
been taken anywhere. All the thief had to do, was to bring another boat alongside, roll
it over the gunwale and motor off with it.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 85
“You’re right,” Devoran said gloomily. He should have thought of that possibility
himself. He’d been obsessed with the vision of a burglar struggling to carry the box
along the dock, up the ramp and out of the gate.
“Listen, you two,” Susi said, an edge creeping into her voice, “This is all very
interesting, but what about me? What am I going to do now? I’ve got no money, nothing.”
“You have a bank account?”
“I closed all that stuff down when we brought the boat here. This was our last
stop in Canada for God knows how long. What would I want with Canadian bank accounts
when I was lying on some tropical beach, for God’s sake? I’ve got nothing, I
tell you. You see these jeans? Eric’s son lent them me.”
“It’s your problem, not ours,” Dobbin said — unfeelingly, Devoran thought.
Had he detected a frisson of dislike between these two women? He hoped not. Life
was quite difficult enough at present.
“We’ll sort something out,” he said.
Dobbin raised her eyes to the smoke-stained ceiling.
“Thanks,” Susi said, shattering Devoran’s already delicate composure with a
warm glance of gratitude.
“Let’s consider the history of this business,” Dobbin said. “There have been
three incidents that could be seen as attempts on Slade’s life. The toppling hull, the
open sea-cock, and the, uh, last one. How is it he’s dead but Susi’s still alive?”
“You’re not pointing the finger at me, by any chance?” Susi asked.
“No. I’m saying the killer may have deliberately avoided harming you. Think
about it.”
“All right. First, the toppling hull, as you call it. It was Li’s job to paint the boat
and mine to organize the provisions for the voyage. That would have been obvious to
anyone visiting the marina.”
“So unless you happened to have been standing beside him at the very moment
he knocked away the wedge, you would have been safe. But Slade was very lucky.”
“Right.”
“Now let’s think about the time the boat sank. You were on board then, Susi.
If you hadn’t woken up, you might easily have drowned along with Slade.”
“Yes…. But it was low tide so the boat didn’t sink properly. And wait a minute.”
The blue eyes widened as she remembered. “I shouldn’t have been there that
night! I’d been in Victoria for a couple days clearing up outstanding matters, and I’d
meant to come back on the Monday, but I got through sooner than I expected.”
“So if that was a murder attempt, the villain wouldn’t have expected you back
on the Sunday.”
“Not if he’d known about my movements, I guess not. I’d told Li I’d be back
Monday and he could have told anyone. But like I said before, I don’t think anyone
was trying to drown us. It was too easy to get out of that boat.”
“What about Saturday night? You said you spent the night at the Globe.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 86
“That’s right. We’d been varnishing the lockers and it was kind of stinky in
there, so we decided to have a night in comfort. Then yesterday morning I went shopping
in Peterville and Li went for a hike to Kingcombe Point. He often did that.”
“Neither of you went back to the boat before you went your separate ways?”
“Well, obviously not.”
“I wish we knew more about Saturday night,” Devoran said unhappily. “We
have to assume someone got into the boat either at night or early Sunday morning and
took your box, and turned on the propane for reasons we don’t understand. They
wouldn’t have known Slade would blow himself up. Chances are, he’d have simply
climbed aboard, seen the evidence of forced entry, taken a quick look inside, smelled
the propane and beaten a hasty retreat.”
“How about this, then? Slade was setting up an insurance claim,” suggested
Dobbin. “He’d chickened out of the voyage and was saving face, and collecting a tidy
sum at the same time. And then something went wrong somehow and he got caught in
his own explosion.”
“Maybe,” said Susi. “It’s the kind of thing he might have done if the boat had
been insured. But it wasn’t.”
They sat in silence, each with their own thoughts. The Globe was filling up with
lunchtime customers and people were seating themselves at adjacent tables. After a
while Dobbin asked quietly, “Any chance of rescuing any data from the computer’s
hard drive?”
“I doubt it,” Devoran replied. “I’ll get it looked at, but the computer’s all blown
open and blackened and soaked in sea water. I don’t see how anything could have
survived that.”
Amanda Herring arrived with their food: three large cheeseburgers and fries.
With simultaneous sighs of anticipation they started in. It had been a long morning.
Amanda called across the room, “Your sausages will be just a minute, Mr. Ferris.”
Ferris. The man Duffy had mentioned as hanging round the boats. The three of
them swiveled in their chairs as one.
A rodent-featured individual sat alone at a table on the far side of the room,
half-hidden by a wide stone pillar. As they twisted in their seats to get a better look at
him, he glanced up and became aware of them. Immediately he arose, leaving his halffull
glass on the table, and made for the door.
“After him, Dobbin,” Devoran snapped, the man of action. “Don’t let him get
away. We need to talk to him.”
Dobbin surveyed her plateful, sighed, rose from her chair and set off in reluctant
pursuit.
“Shall I keep the burger warm for her?” Amanda asked.
“She’ll be back soon,” Devoran said. “Uh, can you spare us a moment,
Amanda?”
“For you, Eric, any time,” she smiled and sat in Dobbin’s place. “Not too long
though, eh? We’re beginning to liven up here.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 87
“Thanks. OK, think back to Saturday night. I expect you were pretty busy
then, right?”
“Typical Saturday night. The usual crowd.”
“Any strangers?”
She thought about it. “Not that I noticed. Unless you count our guest Mr. Ferris.
But he’s been here several times.”
“Now, think about this carefully. I’m told Mr. Slade and Miss Sutcliffe were
staying here as well, that night. Did Mr. Ferris or anyone else show any interest in
them?”
She stared at him. “Well, of course. They’re quite well known in here. Lots of
people talked to them in the bar. I didn’t notice Mr. Ferris talking to them in particular.”
“What I really mean is, did anyone ask specifically if they were staying here in
the inn that night?”
“Sorry, Eric. I can’t help you. Anyone might have asked them without me
knowing. All I can say is, nobody asked me. ”
“You didn’t notice anyone hanging around the front desk, maybe looking in the
register?”
“No.... But like I said, we were busy and Jim and I were both behind the bar.
You can’t see the front desk from there. Anyone needing attention there dings the little
bell thing.” She grinned. “And they wouldn’t do that if they were taking a shifty glance
at the register, would they?”
“Mrs. Herring!” The white-aproned cook called from the hatch. “One order
bangers!”
Amanda rose. “Excuse me; I’ll be right back.” She glanced across the room.
“That’s funny. Here’s Mr. Ferris’s sausages, but where’s Mr. Ferris?”
MONDAY LUNCH TIME: IN THE LIBRARY
Noss Cove Public Library consists of a flimsy corrugated iron shed beside the community
hall with little more than two dozen shelves; mostly detective fiction, the staple diet
of the elderly population. Mrs. Rooke-Challenger stared around critically. The place
was hardly the Bodleian and it was difficult to see why the Vinge woman should give
herself such airs. She approached the counter, sniffing the musty air like an old warhorse,
trailing Wilberforce and Colonel like camp-followers.
Hostilities commenced earlier than even she had expected.
“Mrs. Rooke-Challenger, really! How many times have I told you that dogs are
not permitted in the library? Please take that animal outside.”
What a bureaucrat the woman was! “I shall do as you ask, not because of any
conviction that you are within your rights, but simply as a gesture of goodwill. I am a
reasonable person, and you, conversely, are a servant of the public.”
“A volunteer, actually.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 88
“Be that as it may.” She returned Colonel to the car. The poor old fellow was
getting very stiff these days, but a forceful foot in the crotch helped him in. Now, what
was the best way to befriend this dreadful harridan Vinge? On a temporary basis, of
course. Mrs. Rooke-Challenger was a proud woman and toadying did not come easily.
But toadying, it seemed, was necessary. She returned indoors and found Wilberforce in
discussion with the brassy Vinge. Probably trying to make peace, just as his father
would have done.
“Look, Gran, here’s a book by Mrs. Vinge. Did you know she’s an author?”
She glanced dismissively at the lurid volume. “It says May Harper.”
“My maiden name,” said the woman with a braggart smirk.
“You’ve aged almost beyond recognition since the jacket photograph was
taken.” Mrs. Rooke-Challenger belatedly remembered her purpose and essayed a
smile. Vinge, standing behind the counter, recoiled slightly. “That was a most unfortunate
misunderstanding we had the other day.” It was difficult, she found, to smile and
speak at the same time.
“Misunderstanding?”
“I refer to the fine you imposed on me for alleged late return of books. Most
inappropriate, but I like to think I’m man enough to forgive and forget.”
But the ghastly woman was not to be fooled. “And since we seem to be clearing
the air and building bridges, Mrs. Rooke-Challenger, I must assure you the Arts Council’s
decision not to hang your, uh, painting was based on perceived merit, not on any
personal animosity.”
“Good grief, woman, I’m not talking about the philistines on your preposterous
Arts Council! Pulled Down currently graces my living room and I’m delighted for it to
stay. I’m offering you an apology, don’t you understand? Please accept it with dignity.”
Reluctantly the woman grunted, “You’re welcome, Mrs. Rooke-Challenger.”
“Well, that’s much better, isn’t it? So silly to quarrel; life’s too short, I always
say. And we have a lot in common, you and I.”
“We have?”
“I lost my husband many years ago. I believe you’re a widow too, my dear.”
The expression of bewilderment deepened, if anything. “You could say we have
that in common, I suppose.”
“There is something else.”
“Yes?”
“I understand we are both lovers of the work of the master.”
“The master?”
“James Spooner. The Victorian maestro of the crime genre. I wonder… so
long ago….” She tried the smile again, aiming for a reminiscent, nostalgic expression
such as an educated elderly lady might wear when savoring times past.
“Are you feeling all right, Mrs. Rooke-Challenger?”
“Never better. God, it’s years since I read Spooner. One forgets, at my age. I
wonder.... Would you mind looking out a couple of his books for me, my dear?”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 89
“I believe we only have one in at present. I could order one from Victoria, if
you like. We don’t get much call for Spooner these days.”
“No call for Spooner? You astonish me. Given that we have a James Spooner
Appreciation Society here in Noss Cove.”
“Perhaps you also know that I am the chairwoman.”
“Good for you, my dear!” Mrs. Rooke-Challenger experienced the thrill of the
hunt. This was going better than she’d expected. The foul woman was putty in her
hands. Appeal to their sense of importance, that’s the way to do it. “A most fortunate
coincidence. I’d been intending to become a member myself. Time hangs so heavily,
when you’re old. What can be more pleasant than a few good people discussing a mutual
passion….”
“We tend to be a bit exclusive, I’m afraid. You might find us cliquish. Really,
we’re just old friends getting together every so often. We chat about Spooner for a
while, yes. Then we play bridge. There are four of us, you see. In the last year bridge
has more or less taken over as the Society’s raison d’étre. You might find it a bit
awkward. Five people, I mean, at bridge.”
“Absolutely not! I must insist!”
The appalling woman bore a trapped look. “It so happens we have a meeting at
my place, on Friday evening at eight o’clock. You’re welcome to come along on a trial
basis, Mrs. Rooke-Challenger. I must warn you, we have a rule that prospective new
members must submit to a ballot.”
“I welcome it, my dear! And now, if you’ll just order my Spooner book from
Victoria, I’ll pick up the one you have and be on my way.”
Mission accomplished!
MONDAY AFTERNOON: AN EXAMPLE OF POLICE BRUTALITY
Things had gone sadly wrong, and Constable Dobbin was beginning to wonder whether
her days as a police officer were numbered. She’d joined the Mounties four years ago
as a result of an interview with the careers teacher at school. In this time of crisis, it all
came back to her.
“Well, let’s see now, Marsha. You’re what I might call an all-rounder.”
“Is that good?”
The teacher, probably mindful of the fifty-odd interviews she had to get through
in the next few days, spoke rapidly. “Middle-of the road. Your results have not been
unsatisfactory. You have a lot to congratulate yourself for. I would like to think you
will be leaving St. Mary’s feeling good about yourself. It’s very important for a young
woman to feel good about herself.”
“Tell me one thing I can feel good about.” Like many girls of her age, Dobbin
was low on self-esteem.
“The school field hockey team had its best season in history. Your name as
captain has been entered on the roll of honor in the Assembly Hall.”
“You think I should become a professional field hockey player?”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 90
“No, that was not quite what I meant. I was directing your attention to your
physical attributes. You’re a strong girl with excellent hand-eye coordination.”
“I’m built like a prizefighter with a brain to match, that’s what you’re saying?”
“You must not think of yourself as unintelligent merely because of your academic
results. Some people are late developers.”
This bumbling old spinster had never been out in the real world, anyway. “All
right, what kind of career do you recommend for a rather stupid six-foot girl who can
swing a stick?”
Surprisingly, the teacher had an answer to this one. “Have you thought of the
police?”
And it had worked out well enough. The not unintelligent Dobbin had proved
marginally more intelligent than some of her contemporaries and one year ago had relinquished
her uniform for plain clothes. Constable Dobbin of GIS. It had a fine ring to it.
She’d enjoyed her assignments, usually under the gentle guidance of Staff Sergeant
Devoran. Eric was a good man, and she was confident one day he’d tell her the whole
story of the Spackman case. But he was a modest man too, so for her the case still remained
a legend, which made Staff Sergeant Devoran a legendary figure. It gave her no
small status to be working with such a man.
And now she might well have thrown it all away.
The bleeding figure of Wilf Ferris watched her tearfully from the bed in his room
at the Globe. “What did you want to go and do that for? I never done you no harm. I
don’t even know you.”
“Listen, I’ve said I’m sorry. It was all a mistake. Here, let me do something
about those cuts.” She dampened a face cloth and began to dab at his face. It really
was quite a mess. It was pure bad luck that when she’d brought him down with a flying
rugby tackle he’d fallen face-forward onto the ancient stone steps leading up to the
men’s washroom.
“What do you mean, a mistake? There was no mistake about the way you attacked
me!” He regarded her with fear as she bent over him with the face cloth.
“My friend said you’d stolen her purse,” Dobbin improvised.
“Susi Sutcliffe, you mean? Why would she say that?”
She was getting in deep here. Could she conceal her identity for ever? Of
course she couldn’t. If Ferris was a suspect, then sooner or later Ferris would find out
she was a police officer. And then the fat would be in the fire. No, she’d have to come
clean and face the consequences.
“Actually, it was my other friend.”
“The thin guy? I’d stolen his purse? You have some funny friends, Miss.”
“No, he told me to get after you. He wanted to talk to you. He’s a policeman,
you see. Uh, so am I.”
A light of comprehension dawned on the rodent features. “Oh, Jesus, it makes
sense now. Police brutality.” His confidence was returning by leaps and bounds. This
was a situation he understood. This woman was not some Amazonian crazy who had
carried him to his room like a child, there to practice unimaginable violence on his puny
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 91
frame. This was the police. This was predictable. “I demand to see my lawyer,” he
said.
“That really won’t be necessary.” Did she detect a note of pleading in her
voice? Their roles had become reversed. The nasty little Ferris had gained in stature,
staring at Dobbin in triumphant accusation. “I just wanted to ask you a few questions,
that’s all,” she said mildly.
“So the purse thing was all a lie.” He rose stiffly from the bed, took the face
cloth from her and examined himself in the mirror. “What an awful goddamned mess.
You’ve disfigured me for life. This looks like a plastic surgery job to me.” He dabbed
at the cuts, then soaked the face cloth, squeezed it out and applied it to his brow. “I’ve
got a headache,” he complained. “Concussion, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“You’ll be right as rain in a minute or two. Uh, can I get you a drink from the
bar?”
“Double scotch might help,” he whined. “Glenfiddich, no ice. Water. Fifty-fifty;
don’t let them drown it.”
When Dobbin entered the bar she was relieved to find Devoran and Susi had
left; three empty plates attesting to their voracity. Gannets; they’d eaten her burger as
well. Well, she’d have to sort out the Ferris problem before she saw Eric again, otherwise
his good opinion of her would take a nose-dive. Dobbin, I’m surprised at you.
What were you thinking of attacking the poor man like that? I shall have to report
this to my superior, of course.
Ferris downed half the scotch, smacking his lips in appreciation, then regarded
her speculatively. She recognized the look. The little bastard thought he was onto a
good thing. “What did you want to do it for, then?” he asked. The whine was still in his
voice. He was playing it cagey, seeing how the land lay.
“I thought you were running away.”
“I was going to the washroom, for Chrissake!”
“You don’t seem to want to go now.”
“Do I have to prove it?” He limped into the bathroom, slamming the door behind
him.
The drink seemed to have revived him. What an appalling situation! She could
have sworn he’d been making some kind of quick getaway outside the bar. He’d had a
furtive, scuttling look, and when she’d broken into a run, shouting after him, he’d accelerated.
The rest, somehow, had been instinctive. The next thing she’d known, he was
semiconscious and bleeding. She’d picked him up and he’d mouthed feeble directions
to his room. Fortunately she hadn’t been obliged to carry him through the bar; the
lobby was on the other side of the building. Nevertheless James Herring had seen them
on their way upstairs and had even volunteered assistance.
Ferris returned from the bathroom, having had time to think. “All right, what’s it
all about, then?”
“We’re treating the death of Lionel Slade as homicide, did you know?”
“I don’t know nothing about that!”
“Did you know Slade?”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 92
“Listen, what’s this got to do with police brutality? What about my lawyer?”
“That’s a separate issue; we’ll deal with it later. Now, please answer my questions
unless you’d rather come to Peterville with me. Did you know Slade?”
“I knew of him, that’s all.”
“Did he ever talk about the accident when the boat nearly fell on him?”
“I never spoke to the guy.”
“Did Duffy ever say anything himself?”
A cunning smile twisted the unpleasant features. “Yeah, I overheard him talking
to Charlie Hood about it. He said he figured Mr. Slade was trying to pull an insurance
stunt, aiming for a total write-off, but the boat was stronger than he’d expected. They
reckoned they only had his word for it there was no insurance policy. There was other
things. Like when it began to sink one night. Charlie said someone had opened a seacock,
but how could they, from outside the boat? You know what I think? He didn’t
have the guts for his ocean trip to wherever he was going. He’d lost his nerve so he
was trying to cash in.”
“But he blew himself up.”
“Something went wrong with his figuring. He never meant to be there. Whatever,
it’s nothing to do with me.”
“You didn’t see anyone on his boat last weekend, did you?”
“Nah. Only Royboy, the hippie. He was doing some work for Mr. Slade on
Saturday. It was all right, I mean, Mr. Slade knew all about it.”
“He told you, did he?”
“I keep telling you, I never spoke to Mr. Slade. Charlie Hood told me. In the
course of conversation, like. Royboy’s been doing odd jobs for Mr. Slade. Electrical,
mostly.”
“Charlie Hood tells us you’ve been around the marina quite a bit.”
“Yes, I’ve been looking for a boat, haven’t I?”
“What kind of boat?”
“That’s my business, eh?”
“Charlie Hood tells us you’ve been around for weeks. It doesn’t take weeks to
make up your mind. And this is a small marina. Why not look for a boat in Vancouver
or Victoria?”
“I have. And I haven’t been around for weeks; I’ve just dropped by now and
then. You can check the register here. Anyway, I’m going back home next week, so
I’ll be out of your hair, eh?”
“Be sure to leave us with your address.”
“Yeah, and you leave me with yours. Some place where my lawyer can get in
touch. What was your name again?”
Some time later she left Ferris with another double Glenfiddich, applying the
face cloth to his head again. The interview had been less than satisfactory, not to say
costly. She’d have to edit her recollections before reporting to Eric.
TUESDAY EVENING: AN UNWELCOME VISITOR
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 93
It had been a difficult day and Devoran had been looking forward to relaxing at home,
maybe slumping in front of the TV with a beer and dozing off. The visit to Peterville
hospital had been fraught with tension, so much so that driving there with Susi in the car
had been reminiscent of some of the less pleasant journeys with Mother-in-law.
“I still don’t see why I have to go and look at him. He might be all blown apart.
I tell you right now, if there’s any blood and stuff I’ll throw up on the spot.”
“There’s nothing to worry about. He’ll be all cleaned up, looking as though
he’s asleep.”
“He never looked good when he was asleep. His face looked puffy and leering,
and he’d snort every so often.”
Devoran’s patience had worn thin. “He won’t be snorting today, I assure
you.”
“What kind of a thing is that to say? You’re an insensitive clod!”
By the time they reached the hospital and found a parking spot a tense silence
was prevailing between them. Leaving Susi in the reception area, Devoran went in
search of the Coroner. He found Dr. Bob Ravenelli, an old acquaintance, drinking coffee
in the tiny staff rest room. Following the usual greetings he got quickly to the point.
“Bob, I have a girl here who’s going to identify Slade. Is the autopsy done?”
“All finished. Nothing of interest, really. My report will say he died from a
blow to the back of the head followed by drowning, but there are flakes of paint embedded
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